I don't know about you, but I think it's time for a teds revival. I want to see men with slicked-back hair and enormous sideburns, wearing drapes, drainpipes and brothel creepers, and girls in voluminous skirts and fishnets, twirling revealingly to the primal beat of greaser rockabilly bands who crisscross the land in battered transit vans, dine exclusively at transport cafés, and reek of engine oil and danger.

Of course, it's probably my age, and the music scene probably isn't nearly as stale as it appears, but I can't help thinking that a bit of the old rebel spirit might liven things up a bit.

Having put together a band for a one-off performance of rock'n'roll covers at my daughter's school fete (scoff all you want, takings at the cake stall were down significantly while we tore the place apart) I have been re-seduced by the scorching power of songs about girls, cars and fighting, and delightfully re-ignited by the lascivious bluntness of their message.

Of course to some, rock'n'roll never went away. There are still clubs and labels catering for diehard fans, annual weekend gatherings at cold coast holiday camps - the inspiration for ATP, but a real injection into the mainstream right now would be fabulous. Bands such as Kitty, Daisy and Lewis might have a hit - I hope so, and (the hopefully not defunct) Vincent Vincent and The Villians have looked like starting something for a while, but I want to see black crepe jackets and lurex socks everywhere.

There is something wonderful and unique about British rock'n'roll. While American music lost its edge at the end of the 50s, Britain embraced its wildest characters, Gene Vincent, Bo Diddley and Eddie Cochran, and kicked up quite a few of its own - Johnny Kidd, Vince Taylor, Billy Fury, Screaming Lord Sutch, and of course, John Lennon, although he got distracted for a few years, and the music mutated into something dirtier, and stranger than the original.

I have been told by those older than me, that Britain in the early 60s was a darker more depraved place than today - still brutalised by the second world war, sexually repressed, and that rock'n'roll sent people mad - I'd be interested to see that happening again - I'm not sure what taboos there are left to break - or that the ones still in place shouldn't remain so, but a bit of something fast, furious and mean wouldn't go amiss.

Punk owes more than it cares to admit to the rash of British bands sticking it to the cheese-cloth and patchouli brigade of the early 70s. Have a look at Crazy Cavan and the Rhythm Rockers. Without sounding like a Marks & Spencer food add, that's not a Cliff Richard-style Elvis impersonation - that is a man who if he wasn't singing, would be murdering you in a bar fight. Watch Freddie Fingers Lee, the one-eyed maniac sitting with a flask of tea at the piano - then going beserk with an axe and smashing it to pieces.

Before becoming Shaky - the household entertainer, Shakin Stevens and The Sunsets were the real deal - favourites of Johnny Rotten apparently. Malcolm McLaren and Vivienne Westwood were knocking out Teddy Boy gear at Let it Rock, long before they discovered safety pins and swastikas. The beauty of Teddy boy fashion is that like the best of British music, it took components from elsewhere - part American cowboy, part jazz-age pimp, but remained quintessentially Saville Row Edwardian.

Of course, I'm too old to wear any of this stuff - except in the privacy of my own boudoir - or perhaps at a Pontins in Great Yarmouth - I'd have enough trouble getting into indie discos as it is without looking like I'm going to chain the DJ for not playing Matchbox, but some of you reading this who are younger and more adventurous, might like to consider it.